Fragrance of Desertion
Lance Garrison Ballard
February 2006
February 2006
Yet the solider had this seemingly unabashed courage not to cower from that which seemed to stalk, somewhere out there, passed the dirt-stained window, among the dreary gray fog of limbo, where eternity awaits the coming arrival of a cursed soul–to cast upon a path, forever on, never allowed to falter away from.
Darn near close in thought, that was, the emotion I felt from the solider and his unflinching stare. Like he knew why he was at Winslow Manor.
That, and why, he could never falter from the path he seemed destine to tread upon, nor speak in brilliant clarity and trite–that which could explain galling reason for silent accord, and undoubted reason in being there, at Winslow Manor.
Sad as it was, the solider seemed to know this and also seemed to know, could never change what he did and the act he did that had him there, at Winslow Manor. With me. In the master suite, no less. Alone. We were. Me. And the solider. In the master suite at Winslow Manor.
Me and...The solider–
My stare stayed locked on his, for some time. But the soldier’s stare never drifted very long or far from the dirt-stained window.
I could sense, in some celestial why, him wanting me within reach. Which happened, soon enough; the solider had me, and we were no longer there, in the master suite at Winslow Manor. No. No longer there in the master suite.
Instead–
On a German battlefield, ready to dive into a fox hole, six feet deep–stained in crimson gore, the freshly dug earth of this fox hole.
Blood and death was the grave reminder to such death there in the foxhole; though freshly dug, the blood which stained the clumps of earthy soil was no more fresh then the rotted smell of the lifeless bodies.
Yes, blood and death. Seemed that’s all war was good for. Out there on that German battlefield.
Soon I noticed, most of the bodies there on that German battlefield were riddled in bullets.
Yet for some odd, off-kilter reason, my body hadn’t sustained a single wound–nor was there any wound to the hand that held the pistol. Held the pistol. My hand did. Held the pistol.
And like that–
BANG.
Back at Winslow Manor, I was. In the master suite again, this time standing just shy of the full-length mirror on the door; and as I gazed at my reflection, my clothes were not my own, but instead–The soldier’s uniform. And his face was now my face, my eyes saw there in the mirror. But then there came yet another scare, a scare that could not be any more explained then the seven days taken to create earth.
And that scare was this: my name donned the soldier’s dog tags!
My name! Same name of the solider! For you see, I was the solider on that German battlefield during World War II. And this time, when I gazed into the mirror, I saw past myself at Winslow Manor, back at the foxhole, and watched how I had squeezed down hard on the pistols’ trigger, so as not to become a prisoner of war.
Prisoner of war, I did not become, when suicide was the sought option to ensure just that. So, if I knew why I didn’t become a P.O.W. and reason for, then I knew, without doubt, for it had to be, that the solider I saw in the master suite at Winslow Manor had once been me. Me, in a former life, I suppose.
Once that revelation came to pass, I also knew that my name had also been the same name of the solider, and name that had and always would don the dog tags.
Yes, the name that would always don the dog tags.
Then. Now. And–
Here. Yes, here. At Winslow Manor. Exact where you are. Yes, you are. Here at Winslow Manor, you are. Which, more or less, puts you and I on the path of destiny.
See, I know just where it is your off to. The middle east, right? Course I am. There’s a war going on there, you know. Just as there had been a war going on at that German battlefield, and just as there had been a war, I was due to get drafted in to. The Vietnam war.
Now, if you’ll remember correctly, I was to tell you, later, just how I dodged the draft. Well, the Great White North wasn’t were I high-tailed it. Far from it. See, I dodged the draft, right here, at Winslow Manor, sure enough. What I just told you about, the solider and all, was the exact vision I’d, there at Winslow Manor, day before shoving off to Vietnam, see. Well, there wasn’t much to argue with. Not with what I had seen, that’s for sure. The truth had been shown to be, by myself, in another body, in another time. And what I’d seen, I knew would be waiting for me there, in Vietnam. Death. By my own hand. Suicide.
You see, there was really no need to have fate play out, half way around the world, so I lent fate a helping hand and did the job sooner then planned. Far as destiny was concerned, that is.
See, I dodged the draft by suicide, pistol blast to the head. So you see, my young recruit to a new life that is sure to end the same as always, you too have come here to Winslow Manor, for reasons unknown, until now, to play out your role, that which fate has labeled destine unto you.
Yes, labeled destine unto you. Sad to say, young recruit, but your last breath on earth will be spent, here...In the master suite of Winslow Manor.
I know. I know. All this seems a tad bit far fetch, huh. Well, tell you what. Just take my hand, and you’ll see, as witness to it all, how I am you and you are me and we are the solider there, standing next to the nailed-shut window.
When what I’m about to show you has filled your eyes through, you’ll be here with us, as if never belonging anywhere else but here. Trust me, you’ll see. You’ll see. And the pistol, soon to be used, is the same pistol that has always been used, and has always been stowed there, in the sea bag by that soldier’s feet.
About all I can say more about any of this is that the smell of gunpowder from the pistol when you squeeze the trigger, will be the fragrance of desertion. Your desertion. Desertion from war. Your generation’s war. Come now. Take my hand, for there is a journey you must take. With me. As guide. To show what you know now to be true and the destiny which awaits you. And the pistol which you’re destine to grip. Not to mention, squeeze down hard upon the trigger.
So, now take my hand. For there’s much for you to see. So much for you to see.
Lance Garrison Ballard was born and raised in Hobbs, New Mexico. He now resides in Duncan, Oklahoma with wife Emily and two sons, Tylor and Preston.
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